


took my hand and never gave it back

by elibe



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Rekka no Ken | Fire Emblem: Blazing Sword
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pre-Relationship, not too mature just mentions of death/violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-21 14:08:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21076145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elibe/pseuds/elibe
Summary: A broken prayer is murmured into stagnant air. Lucius can feel the divine energy snake up, returning to the heavens from whence it came; returning to the Saint. It’s an offering to the Her, to the gods, to anyone who might be listening.





	took my hand and never gave it back

**Author's Note:**

> more of a look into lucius’ character. this doesn’t have a set timeline but it takes place BEFORE their a-support conversation.
> 
> fair warning, lucius has a panic attack, i don’t think it’s that jarring but i wanted to make a note of it in case anyone is triggered by that
> 
> title is from “some are lakes” by land of talk

Lucius’ hand clutches the blue curtain of his robe in a tight fist. His hair is no doubt falling from its hasty ponytail, and blood smears the corner of his lip (Lucius isn’t sure whether it is his or not). His clenched fist glows with leftover light magic; it simmers with heat that Lucius himself can’t feel.

The battle is clearly over, although not without casualties on both sides. Lucius nudges the body of a fallen enemy soldier with the toe of his muddied, bloody leather boot. The man is dead, for sure, and Lucius purses his lips. He didn’t _ want _to kill, of course. As long as he’ll live, he’ll never forgive himself for any pain his own hands had inflicted. Some would argue that good deeds cancel out the bad ones, but Lucius knows that this is false.

He kneels in the ruddy soil. The body’s eyes are pure white, a telltale sign of light magic, and Lucius shakes. He presses the back of his hand against its cooling forehead and moves to close its milky eyes. A broken prayer is murmured into stagnant air. Lucius can feel the divine energy snake from the man’s dead body, returning to the heavens from whence it came; returning to the Saint.

He sings softly under his breath — it’s an offering to the Saint, to the gods, to anyone who might be listening. _ Spare this man trouble. Let his passing be easy. _Lucius feels the body go completely cold, and only then does he allow himself a breathe.

The monk rakes his fingers through fallen blond hair, pulling out the carelessly-tied ribbon along with it. He wants to yell, to sob, to take the damage back, but he can’t. Lucius isn’t allowed to. Lucius is a servant of Saint Elimine. He is the ragtag army’s holy man, their confidante, their rock. Besides, he’d learned a long time ago how to push his feelings aside.

_ His hair is brown as the earth. His skin is ashy. He is wearing a red pauldron. I killed him. _

Lucius takes a shaky breath and hauls himself back to his feet. He nearly trips on the hem of his robes, but a hand grasps his elbow and steadies him. He recognizes the feeling of rough, calloused hands immediately (and how could he not?)

Raymond, in all of his hard-eyed, flaming glory, has linked elbows with him. His narrowed eyes are fatigued, his face is dotted with red, and there's a nasty cut on the side of his jawline. His chest is still heaving with labored breathing from combat. 

There’s an unspoken message between the two — perhaps something along the lines of _ thank the gods you aren’t dead _ or _ I need you to be okay _ or _ I love you _(although the last was probably wishful thinking on Lucius’ part). Wordlessly, he links arms with Raymond, and the latter threads their fingers together; Lucius can feel the lattice of white scars on his hand.

A traitorous part of him _ wishes _his hands had the scars of the average mercenary. Lucius’ tome-wielding, magic-casting palms are unmarked and smooth. There should be proof of the horrible things he’s done — a warning for anyone approaching him convinced of the assumed purity of a clergyman.

As Lucius is lost in thought, Raymond spares a downward glance and pulls him away from the body; pulls him from the rest of the army.

“What if they need me to heal?” Lucius stutters. Raymond is not deterred, if anything, his pace quickens.

“They’ll deal,” he mutters. “Serra and Priscilla have it covered.”

“But —” 

“You have needs, too, Lucius,” the swordsman declares. “I know you don’t believe it, but sometimes _ you _are the one who needs the healing.”

“I am not hurt,” Lucius insists. He nearly trips over something that he desperately hopes is a rock or tree root. 

The might of Raymond’s steely gaze hones in on him. His eyebrows are pushed together in a way that would, in any other circumstances, be kind of cute. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

_ Of course I know what you mean. Of course you’re the only one who has the nerve to speak to me so freely. I wish you’d never had to see me like this. _

Lucius can’t find a proper response to say aloud, so he shuts his mouth and strides in tandem with Raymond.

They walk silently across the tainted moor. The two pass Rath, who is pulling arrows from the chest of a fallen soldier, and he gives the pair a grave nod. Erk is leaning against a tree trunk at the edge of the clearing. He is clutching his tome close to his chest and his eyes are closed. Lucius strains his neck to check him for any obvious injuries, but the boy looks unharmed.

“He can take care of himself,” Raymond mumbles, immediately sensing Lucius’ distress.

“And so can I,” Lucius snaps, but he makes no effort to pull himself away from his red-haired companion. 

Raymond leads them to a slightly secluded area; close enough to everyone else that they were within earshot. A cold, gray slab of rock juts out of the ground, and Lucius moves to sit on it.

“Now, are _ you _hurt?” Raymond asks. There’s a steely edge to his voice. Lucius doesn’t know what to think of it.

“Nothing a stave can’t fix,” he winces and pulls up the sleeve of his robe, revealing discolored flesh caused by magical burns.

Raven wrinkles his nose and moves to scratch his own arm. “Fire mage?” He guesses.

Lucius nods. He’s pulled the sleeve back down by then. His focused gaze scans Raymond for any telltale signs of injury, and finds that blood stains the front of his torso, up by his left shoulder.

“Arrow wound,” Raymond clarifies. “Serra took care of it.”

“You’re _ still _going to have to bandage and wash that,” Lucius chided. “It could become infected.”

“With all of your fussing, I'll surely get to it,” Raymond mutters (though there's no ill-will in his voice). The mercenary takes a breath. “You looked… _ different _out there today.”

“I watched multiple men die, some by my own hands, so forgive me if I was behaving peculiarly,” Lucius says curtly.

Raymond recoils as if he’d been hit with a brick, but is ultimately undeterred. “You’re a _ soldier _, Lucius, that comes with the territory and you know that. What’s really troubling you?”

The blonde fidgets with the torn hem of his sleeve. Every single basic instinct is telling him to run, to leave, to stay quiet for months and months to avoid burdening another with the swirling problems plaguing his mind. He peers up at his companion and notes the _ concern _in the normally stone-faced man.

How could he ever refuse his Raymond?

“Forgive me, but—” Lucius pauses. “I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.”

Raven stays silent. 

“I truly believe in Lord Eliwood’s cause, and Lady Lyn is a dear friend of mine, but I feel like I am _ losing _ myself the longer this war drags on.” His hands tremble with the weight of his confession. _ Cowardly, _he thinks, and expects Raymond to scoff and leave, but the man stays standing.

“At first, I was able to convince myself that the atrocities I committed in combat were necessary, but now…” Lucius shrugs. “It feels needless. Those — those were just _men, _Raymond. They weren’t bandits or criminals; they were soldiers, like us. How can I continue to do these horrible things when I can no longer justify them?” Lucius’ mouth goes dry and he finds that he can’t continue any further.

“They were trying to kill us, Lucius,” Raymond says. His voice is oddly quiet. “They were trying to kill _ you. _They brought it upon themselves.”

“Why, though?” Lucius nearly shouts. He stands up unsteadily from his perch on the rock. “We’re no different than them! These weren’t knights and squires, they were normal people probably just trying to put food on their tables!”

“You think I don’t know that?” Raymond’s voice is low and harsh. “It does me no good to dwell on these things. After the fire, I could kill without conscience, but not anymore. Do you think that I _ enjoy _this work? Am I still the boy I was a year ago?”

“Of course not!” Lucius’ voice breaks. “This is dirty work, Raymond, dirty work for _ anyone, _not just for a noble or a monk.” He notices the dried blood on his hands and manically wipes them on his stained robes.

“Look, I‘m sorry,” Raven apologizes hastily. “Just — calm down, for now.”

Lucius’ heart is throbbing in his chest. He feels itchy all over — feels it burning under his skin — and he reaches to claw at a forearm before realizing the long sleeves of his undershirt cover it. 

_ He had brown hair. His skin was pale. He wore a red pauldron. I killed him. _

_ Oh. _ This was one of his episodes; his _ fits, _they’d called it. His sickness of the soul. The thing that was wrong with Lucius, what made him disregard his feelings, what made him cover his ears at the sound of yelling children, what made strangers deem him unstable. The condition that had been undermined and brushed aside his whole life.

_ Brown hair. Pale skin. Red pauldron. Dead. _

“Hey, hey, Lucius,” Raven stumbles over his words and reaches towards him. “Dann it, Lucius, come sit down.”

The latter can only blearily nod and move to the boulder where they sat. His vision is _ spinning, _almost; Lucius has never been able to properly describe the feeling.

_ Brown. Pale. Pauldron. Dead. Brown. Pale. Pauldron. Dead. _

“Lucius!” Raymond utters his name with such _ worry, _ with such _ vigor _and it makes Lucius feel guilty for the resulting jump in his heart.

“Can you nod if you hear me?” The man asks. His voice is even, but Lucius can sense the apprehensive waver in it. 

He feels as if he’s just been splashed in the face with a bucket of cold water. The world is fuzzy but Raymond is there, he’s _ always _ been there, so Lucius nods.

“Okay. Okay,” the swordsman mutters (more to himself than Lucius). “Alright, just breathe, okay? Shit, that’s useless advice — I’m no good at this.” He gestures aimlessly out of frustration.

Lucius lets out a breathy laugh. If he could speak, he would’ve told him that he _ was _good at this, that he was the only one who had never judged him after witnessing his episodes. He’d tell a lot of things to Raymond if he had the courage to.

Wordlessly, the latter reaches out an arm, and when Lucius does his best to look at him, there’s an unspoken question on his lips. Lucius answers by leaning into the touch, leaving Raymond to try and adjust without feeling awkward. 

_ Navy jacket. Auburn hair. Carnelian eyes. Warm hands. _

_ Please don’t leave. _

Lucius’ heart is still pounding, but his vision is clearing up. The burning sensation on his forearms has faded, especially on the side presses against his companion. He notices Raven trying to sync his breaths with Lucius, which is a gesture that’s somehow ridiculously sweet.

“There are people who actually care about you, you know,” Raymond grumbles. “You’re so busy saving others that you hardly spare time to take care of your damn self.”

Lucius knows him well enough to tell that there’s no real bite to his words, only concern masked behind his tough façade. Concern for _ him. _

There's a beat of silence. The stone is cool under Lucius’ palms. Raymond’s hair is auburn like fallen leaves.

“I don’t know what I would do if I lost you.”

Raymond’s words puncture the air like an arrow through Lucius’ heart, which is racing, but not out of fear or panic anymore.

_ I could never lose you, either. I have loved you since we were children. Your skin is warm. _

“Thank you,” Lucius murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “For everything.”

_ I was a fool for entertaining the thought of you leaving me. _

“Sap,” Raven snorts. Is he closer than before, or is Lucius just imagining it?

“Hmm, perhaps,” Lucius concedes. “You still have to bandage your wound.”

“And so do you,” Raymond counters. “If you truly need someone to fuss over, you’re more than welcome to bandage mine.”

Lucius stands up on shaky legs. “You know you’d love it.” His heart soars at the blush he elicits from the usually-grumpy mercenary.

As they walk back to camp, Lucius can almost ignore the splayed bodies and discarded weapons on the hallowed soil if he focuses hard enough. _ Gray sky. Oak trees. Humid air. Autumn-leaves hair. Ruby eyes. Gentle hands. Warm._

_ Please don’t leave. _

_ Please don’t. _

_ Please. _

“We _ will _ figure this out, you know that, right?” Raymond utters quietly, barely audible over the din in Lucius’ head. 

“What’s _ this?” _Lucius whispers.

Raymond doesn’t answer or clarify what he means, but his hand is heavy on Lucius’ back and their hearts are beating in tandem, so the monk guesses that he has a pretty good idea: maybe, just _ maybe, _Raymond feels the same.

_ Hope. _ Lucius decides. _ That’s what _ this _ is. _

Hope is just fine for now.

**Author's Note:**

> my twitter is @lesbolyn if you want to yell at me
> 
> listen to girl! by terror pigeon it’s luciraven culture


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